


Of Hearts (And What to Do with Them)

by nerdsandthelike, Xanisis



Category: Nothing Much to Do
Genre: F/M, WORDS: the uncut edition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 07:43:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2340536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdsandthelike/pseuds/nerdsandthelike, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xanisis/pseuds/Xanisis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This had all sounded way better in his head. And it’s not like he ever thought he was going to be a poet or anything, but he’d like to live in some sort of alternate universe where he’s a little bit more suave. Just a little bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Hearts (And What to Do with Them)

Beatrice comes over and Ben thinks there’s something strange about seeing her in his room for the first time in four years. She fits in so perfectly that it makes his chest ache.

 

She answers a call from Hero and she’s gone for long enough that he starts to feel awkward, so he decides to start filming. There’s something therapeutic about being in front of the camera, like he can talk more freely to a piece of metal machinery than he can to anyone else and he desperately needs to talk to someone about the way that his heart is beating in his chest like it’s going to run away.

 

She comes back in before he has a chance to do more than stare at the camera like an idiot, the words all stuck in his heart. Something about the casual way that she clambers into his bed and leans back up against the back of his headboard has him just- she looks too good sitting on his bed, with her cup next to his, the Stark wolf branded across the side, like hey, we have morals and you don’t. And yeah. She’s drinking tea and the fact that she is probably doesn’t mean anything, but he can’t help but hope. Sometimes people come around on things.

 

“How’s Hero?” he asks, once she’s settled.

 

“Same as yesterday,” she says, offering him a small smile. He can’t quite reconcile this Beatrice with the girl who just two weeks ago had wrestled him in the courtyard, all flailing arms and snark. “Were you filming a vlog?”

 

“Oh, it’s um,” he says, sparing a glance at the camera, “It’s actually. It’s already recording.”

 

“Oh, that’s… sorry I’ll g-” she says, moving to stand and he almost starts forward in his haste to get her to stay. He realizes that he doesn’t want her to go. He really doesn’t want her to go.

 

“Nononono,” he says, and he wonders if she can sense the hint of desperation in his tone.  

 

“You can-you can stay,” he says.

 

“I don’t wanna intrude,” she replies, perched like she might fly with any sudden movement, hands on either side of her, shoulders tensed.

 

“No. Beatrice. It’s fine,” he says and then softer, so softly she maybe doesn’t hear, “I’m glad you’re here.”

 

“I just had to get out of the house,” she says, slumping down against the headboard, “Leo- I just- I couldn’t stay.”

 

He senses a million meanings behind her words, a thousand moments of pain and conflict and he wants her to burden him with it, to lift the slump in her shoulders with his understanding, but he knows that she’s not ready for any of that.

 

“I get it. I’m sorry everyone’s being awful,” he says, and maybe there’s something too soft in his voice, because her reply is right on his heels

 

“And I’m sorry you had to get caught up in this,” she says, her eyes shying away from his. “And that I randomly crashed your house.”

 

“Bea, it’s really fine,” he says, “and besides, I’ve gotta give you something to do, right? We can’t have you sitting around feeling sad about it all.”

 

“I’d rather stay sad for a bit longer, thanks,” she says like it’s a joke, but her eyes are a touch too serious and there’s none of her usual fire in her voice.

 

She’s always been like this bright spark of something, like laughter and snark and wit and just Beatrice. It hurts him to see her being muffled by this sadness. He would do anything to have her be happy again

 

“I-I don’t want you to feel sad,” he says, and it feels like he’s confessing something.

 

“It’s not your problem that I feel so miserable. It’s Claudio’s and Pedro’s.”

 

“I still can’t believe they did that,” he says, and it’s true. “I mean, even if they thought Hero was cheating,  they should have had the decency to handle it better.”

 

“I just wish I could have done more to prevent it,” she says, and there’s something so defeated in the way she says it, like it’s all over. Like everything’s lost. And he can see in her eyes and the tilt of her head and the weight to her shoulders all the blame that she places on herself. He wishes for a single selfish moment that he didn’t care so much, but he does. He does care and he wants to fix it for her, to wash the pain away, but he has no idea how.

 

“So do I, Bea,” he says, and it all feels so serious. He would do anything to see her laugh.  

 

“But… uh… I can’t turn back time! I don’t have a time turner. They all got destroyed in the Battle of the Ministry, and I was THIS CLOSE to getting one.”

 

It’s not his best. It’s lame and a little rushed, but the smile she gives him--head tossed back and eyes rolled to the ceiling-- makes it all seem worth it.  In the not so distant past, she would have mocked him mercilessly for it, turning all of her withering wit and her shimmering eyes and her Beatriceness into full on attack mode, but things are different nowadays. And he thinks if he doesn’t tell her now he’ll explode.

 

“I like you!” he blurts out. “Like, I really really like you, like more than Emma Stone or _Firefly_ or the Tenth Doctor and that’s saying something and I just want you to be happy and,” he peters off, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck.

 

This had all sounded way better in his head. And it’s not like he ever thought he was going to be a poet or anything, but he’d like to live in some sort of alternate universe where he’s a little bit more suave. Just a little bit. He just can’t think when she’s looking at him like she’s expecting him to keep talking and he’s so damned scared that he’s going to mess this, this entire thing, up.

 

“I mean… uh… that was weird. Sorry I-”

 

“You mean almost as weird as me liking you too?”

 

“As you what?”

 

“Uh- I mean, of course I don’t,” she says, and he can just see her verbal backspacing.

 

“Because that would be bad,” she says flatly, and he feels himself deflate just the tiniest bit, because of course not. God. He’s such an idiot.

 

He’s not looking at her, he’s very pointedly not looking at her. He’s staring at the posters above the bed, eyes tracing the familiar, comfortable lines. He feels a little like the man in the Banksy poster, always throwing something away and why couldn’t the man just hold onto the freaking flowers, because you never know when you’re going to need those flowers or the person might not want those flowers at this particular time or ever really and he feels like the stupidest person on the freaking planet. Maybe even the universe. But even though he’s not watching her, he can still see her face shift as she notices the way his shoulders drop. Pity in his peripherals.

 

“But I’m not lying or anything,” she says slowly, and he can hardly breathe, “because I do like you. Like, a lot.”

 

He feels a little like his heart has stopped. He’d always thought that was just an expression, but he feels like he can literally feel his heart palpitating, as if she has some kind of power over the flow of his blood.

 

“But I just,” she runs an agitated hand through her hair, “I’m not myself. All this shit’s going down with Hero and-”

 

“And you like me.”

 

He thinks maybe he should try and disguise his excitement, but he can’t help it because she’s there and she’s sitting on his bed wearing flannel and looking like she belongs there.

 

“No I don’t.”

 

“Beatrice,” he says, moving to sit next to her on the bed and he’s smiling and she’s not and that feels wrong.

 

She draws her knees up to avoid touching him, the movement sharp and skittish, and he thinks things were probably simpler when they were just fighting all the time. He doesn’t quite know what this is, but he knows that he likes her and that maybe she likes him too and that he wants this to be the start of Something with a capital s and maybe that’s enough. It should be enough.

 

“No, I don’t,” she says, burying her face in her knees, her next words muffled and soft, “Because if I liked you I would just look like an idiot. Again.” She looks up at him then and there’s something in her eyes that mirrors a pain in his chest, “Like I did when I was fourteen and I thought you liked me and then you’ll run away. Again.”

 

 “Bea, I’m not running,” he says, reaching towards her.

 

She shrugs off his hand, but the look she’s giving him just makes him want to hold her tight and protect her and he’s never felt this way about anyone. His fourteen-year-old self would be disgusted, but then again fuck his fourteen-year-old self. He kinda wishes that he had an actual a time turner so he could go back and kick his fourteen-year-old self’s ass.

 

“Yeah, right now you’re not,” she says, and there’s something so fragile the way that she says it that it makes him ache inside. He would never have described Beatrice as fragile.

 

“But that’s just because of what’s happened with Hero, it’s not like you actually-”

 

“Beatrice,” he says, and he wants to touch her so badly that it hurts, “I’m not going to run.”

 

She finally meets his eyes and she looks at him for a long moment. She looks at him like she’s searching for something and he’s not sure what, but maybe she finds it because she lets out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.

 

“What?” he asks.

 

“No, I’m just- I’m glad you interrupted me,” she says, and she smiles and it’s tentative and small, but it’s a start.

 

“Why?” he asks, and he’s sitting close enough to her on the bed that if he moved an inch they would be touching.

 

“Well, if you’d let me keep talking I might have done something stupid like admitted that I really really like you too and-”

 

He kisses her. He feels her surprise against his mouth for an instance and then she softens, melting into him.

 

“Sorry,” he whispers when they part, his forehead resting against hers. They’re close enough that he can see all of the colors of her eyes, blues and greens and hazels all mixed together. “I just had to. But if you want to get back to admitting that you like me, by all means, go ahead.”

 

“That sounds like a terrible idea,” she says, and her smile in close up is beautiful.

 

“And why’s that?” he asks.

 

“Because I could be doing this instead,” she says, curling her hand around the nape of his neck and lifting her head to meet his.

 

Kissing Beatrice is glorious. She tastes like tea and sugar and lemon, and he feels like he could possibly do this forever. He can’t think of anything in the world really that he likes better than the press of her lips against his, the feel of her hand in his hair, the warmth of her body against his.

 

He feels the moment when she comes back to herself. Her lips still against his and her hands move from his hair to his chest to push him off. When they disconnect, he feels a little like he’s missing something, like some part of him still is and will always be kissing her.

 

“Shit,” she says, running a hand through her hair. Her lips are bright pink and her hair is a mess and she looks beautiful.

 

“Shit. Shit. Shit. Hero,” she says, and looks at him like that means something to him, like they aren’t allowed to have their moment when Hero is suffering and maybe she’s right, but it doesn’t change how he feels about anything.

 

It’s not like he’s forgotten about Hero, but Hero isn’t here to be helped and comforted and he thinks they should be allowed one selfish moment, but he doesn’t know how to tell Beatrice that without sounding like a total asshat and maybe he has the world’s shittiest timing.

 

He backs away from Beatrice and settles back into his chair. He watches her curl up her legs on the bed, the movement strangely defensive. He forces himself not to lean over and touch her, but he wants to. He really wants to.

 

“It’s gonna be okay, alright?” he says and she turns to look at him with soft eyes and he wants so badly to say the thing that makes it all better. But he doesn’t know what that is. “I mean, let’s just do like we talked about, okay, and try and alleviate the damage: explain what happened and things will get better after we’ve done that, I promise.”

 

“Yeah, but Ben,” she says and he loves the way she says his name. He shouldn’t be distracted by that, but he is. Just a bit. “We’re just talking. I mean, it’s not helping anything, it’s just like breathing, I mean, we do it unconsciously.” She lets out a breath, eyes fixed on the comforter. “This isn’t helping really.”

 

“Look, Bea,” he says, all in a rush. “I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. I was way out of line, and you’re right, we should be doing something about Hero and I shouldn’t have fucked it up with my dumbass confession. I just… you… it just sort of-”

 

“No, Ben,” she says, moving her eyes back to him. “It’s fine, I mean, I wasn’t lying. I mean, I want to be with you and talk to you and I want to hear your stupid Harry Potter jokes and kiss you and fight over who’s going to be on the Iron Throne with you, but I just can’t. Not right now. With everything that’s happening I can’t add this to it. I can’t be happy when Hero’s so miserable, and what would I say anyway? ‘Hi, Hero, I know your boyfriend turned out to be a sultshaming douchesnozzle, but guess what? I made out with Ben today!’ Like, what kind of person does that?”

 

He thinks she’s kind of perfect, all hand gestures and rants and nerdy references and a billion shades of wonderful and Beatrice, she’s Beatrice.

 

“Hey, hey, it’s not your fault, if anything it’s my fault, I-”

 

“No. It’s completely Claudio’s fault!” she replies and even though they’re not arguing, it kinda feels like it. He’s not quite sure how to calm the fire in her eyes. “And Pedro’s because he helped him! Do you think that their behavior’s excusable?”

 

“Nonononono,” he says, backtracking. “No, absolutely not. No. I just think that there’s been a misunderstanding, okay?”

 

“Nobody asked him to publically slut shame her at her sixteenth birthday!” she says, her face contorted with rage.

 

“Nononono, I know, and I don’t condone that at all,” he says, and he watches her face slacken as she realizes that for the first time in a long time he’s not the enemy, that he’s on her side.

 

“He needs to pay for it.”

 

He lets the silence drape over them for a minute, watches the way her eyes focus on the bed like she’s picturing Claudio’s face.

 

“What did you have in mind, Bea?”  he asks as gently as he can.

 

“I dunno. I hate that he’s done this to her. I hate that he said that in front of so many people. I hate that he thought that she would actually do something like that. I really thought he cared for her, and that he wouldn’t hurt her. But I guess I was wrong. I guess everyone’s just out to get her.”

 

He thinks back to that night, Claudio stumbling around drunk, his words harsh and piercing, and the destroyed way Hero had looked, how she had grabbed onto Claudio’s shirt as though she could stop him from leaving her with the force of her hands, and the quick grateful look Beatrice had sent him when he yelled at Ursula to turn the fucking camera off and just the overwhelming guilt that he could have done something, anything to stop it.

 

“Hey,” he says softly, “Claudio was a dick, but that doesn’t mean everyone hates Hero. And I know you want to get back at him-”

 

“If I could, I’d go and rip out his stupid heart and eat it or something. Try and make him feel how she feels.”

 

He thinks of Daenerys Targaryen, all fierce and proud and mighty with blood dripping from her lips. But life isn’t like _Game of Thrones_ and there are other ways to feel powerful.

 

“You know that’s not the answer.”

 

“People always say violence isn’t the answer, but look at the way the world works!”

 

“Not violence, cannibalism- it’s never the answer, Beatrice.”

 

She laughs, a quick exhale past her lips, and looks away from him, eyes towards the ceiling. He watches her draw into herself, playing with her hands on her lap and remaining silent. He doesn’t know what to do with a Beatrice that looks at him with sad eyes and doesn’t mock him or talk or anything and he wishes that he knew how to make it all better. He catches sight of the camera, green button still blinking, and he has an idea.

 

“Tell HIM how you feel. Tell HIM.”

 

“You want me to vlog?” she asks, turning back to him and raising an incredulous eyebrow

 

“It’s what we do, isn’t it?”

 

“Yeah,” she says, and the spark has returned to her eyes.

 

He remembers when he’d watched her first videos, the way she’d appeared so natural on screen, like she was glowing, and he remembers that he’d wanted to match that energy, to show her that he was just as magnetic as she was. It’s what _you_ do, he thinks.

 

“Alright,” he says, “Let’s do this.”

 

She comes and sits next to him and focuses her gaze on the camera. He thinks back to first time that they’d filmed together, how it had been different than filming with Pedro or Claudio, how it had felt like they were a team. He’s really glad they’re a team.

 

“Dear asshat,” she begins, and for the first time that day she sounds like Beatrice, “when you started hanging around, I honestly thought that you were the best thing that could have happened to us. You were so genuine, like, tough exterior, kind heart. And Hero was so happy when you were around. And now she’s… well, it’s not like you care anyway, is it?”

 

He looks down at her, at the brightness in her eyes and he thinks this is Beatrice. All fire and sass and destruction, and he’s kinda terrified, but he also thinks that maybe he loves her. Maybe he does.

 

“You got what you wanted, so congratulations. Well done, Claudio. For one thing you humiliated her, on her birthday, on her sixteenth birthday. You have no idea what you’ve done, you stupid, ignorant little boy. And I will get you for it. Right? We’ll get him. You’ll kill him for me, won’t you? I mean, seriously, watch your back, fuckface; I am coming for you, sincerely, Beatrice Duke”

 

She lets out a deep breath when she’s finished, like she’s put all of her energy into that speech, all of her anger and rage and soul into it. And it’s weird because he’s been on the end of Beatrice’s rants more times than he can count and it’s terrifying, the girl is bloody mad, but it’s not never been like this.

 

“Are you alright?” he asked, wanting to reach towards her, to comfort her, but before he can he hears the familiar blare of the _Game of Thrones_ theme.

 

“I’ll get that,” she says, scrambling back over the bed and picking up her phone. “It’s Leo.”

 

“Why would Leo-” he starts, but then stops when he sees the look on her face.

 

“What?” she gasps, suddenly, sharply, her shoulders drawing in and he feels his chest contract with fear. “Ohmigod, I-”

 

“Bea,” he begins, rising from his chair.

 

She doesn’t even look at him, her eyes wide and panicked, her hand running through her hair, tugging at the strands.

 

“No. No, of course. I’ll be there.”

 

“Bea, what happened?”

 

“Hero. She’s in the hospital. I don’t know what’s happening. I just-” she starts grabbing her things, cursing when her keys slip from her grasp and fall to the floor. She stares at them for a moment, the weight of the world on her shoulders, before bending down to pick them up. She looks tired Ben thinks, tired and older than she did a week ago.

 

“Do you want me to-” he asks, still awkwardly half standing by his chair.

 

“I have to go, Ben.” She rests her hand on his shoulder for a moment. “Bye.”

 

He watches her leave and realizes that he doesn’t want her to go. He wants her to stay with him. He wants to go after her, to help her, give her something, anything to lean on, but more than anything he wants to do whatever she wants him to do. He lets out a deep breath, feeling the exhale all the way in his chest. He wonders how everything got so fucked up, how in the span of a few weeks his entire world could change, that people he thought were friends were now enemies and people he thought were enemies, well... He sinks back into his chair and sees the camera, still recording, and makes a decision.

 

“Claudio,” he begins. “I know you used to watch these…”

 

 


End file.
